


(five-six-five-eight-)one is the loneliest number

by emrys (livingshitpost)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Amputation, Background Character Death, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Clone Wars, Clones, Death, Eye Trauma, Family Loss, Gen, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, One Shot, Order 66, Organs, Past Character Death, Post-Order 66, Psychological Trauma, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Shock, Suicide, Trauma, Unconventional Families, War, bc it felt more fitting, edit: i retconned his name frm feedback t memory, implied - Freeform, n i wanted to use th name feedback fr smth else, oopsie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22672576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingshitpost/pseuds/emrys
Summary: In the aftermath of Order Sixty-Six, a clone loses the brothers he knows, and finds one he didn't.
Relationships: Cut Lawquane & Original Character(s), Original Character(s) & Original Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	(five-six-five-eight-)one is the loneliest number

The fact that he's alive takes a moment to register.

Memo groans. He takes inventory of his injuries as best he can. His left arm feels broken, too close to the wrist for his liking, and he can't quite close his fist. His thumb juts out at an unsettling angle. He holds it protectively against his chest. The movement sends a flash of pain through his side. It hurts to breathe, but not so badly that he can't move. Slowly, carefully, he gets to his feet.

His brothers.

Oh, stars, _his brothers_.

Choker is sickeningly contorted. His hips suggest that he should be lying on his side, but his shoulders are flat on the ground. There's a whirring vibroblade in his hand, coated with crimson. His vambraces have been removed, and his blacks are cut clean through. His helmet rests in a puddle.

Pry ends just below the ribs. His stomach and legs are beside Choker, lying in the pool of his — _their_ — blood. His handguards are covered in it. There's dirt in his— Memo looks away as bile rises in his throat.

Knot lies at his feet. The transperisteel of his visor has broken, and there are pieces of it in one of his eyes. The other stares blankly up, unseeing.

Memo stumbles from the remains of the ship. Data kneels over Joker, shoulders shaking, screaming.

"Joker! _Vod_ , wake up!" His voice is hoarse. "Please, kid. Come on. Don't leave us here . . ."

Memo stares. Data's hair is always pulled back into a tight bun, but now it's falling loosely around his face. The tie he uses is wrapped tightly around Joker's upper arm. It's bleeding from the stump of his elbow. It's bleeding too much. Too slowly. Joker's face is pale.

Data pulls Joker to his chest and holds him there, still shaking. Still screaming. Joker's face is slack, his body limp in his brother's arms.

"Data," Memo says, though it doesn't sound like his voice. "He's gone."

Data doesn't respond. He simply clutches Joker and blocks out the world. Memo watches for a few minutes, too slow to realize he's pulling out his blaster as he calms down.

"I said I'd keep you safe," Data murmurs. "I'm sorry." The gun fires under his chin, and he falls backwards, dead.

Cable lies about thirty paces in the other direction. Pieces of duraplast from his helmet and one of his pauldrons lie around him. His head has been smashed against the rock, blood and brain and bone painting a gruesome image of how he died. His mouth hangs open, his eyes rolled back. Blood drips from his nose and pools behind his bottom teeth. 

So many of his brothers lie dead. Fibro, Pits, Grade. Sevens and Club.

His batchmate, Edge.

Memo's stomach turns. He falls to his knees and vomits in the grass. Chyme dribbles from his lips, and he wipes it on his arm. His vision blurs with hot tears. He does the only thing he can think to do.

He runs.

* * *

"Runs" is a strong word. "Runs" implies speed, strength, stamina. None of which Memo has at the moment. Instead, Memo walks. Memo stumbles. Memo trips over his own two feet.

But he keeps going.

Memo shambles along, feeling as though any soul he may or may not have died with his brothers. Memo staggers across the plains, feeling as though he's still there at the wreckage and bleeding out. Memo shambles through a stream of blood, blood, _blood_ — then looks down and sees clear, clean water.

He kneels down, this time of his own free will, and wipes the dried vomit from his face. The blood from his boots. The tears from his eyes. The sweat from his brow.

He leaves his armor on the bank of the river.

* * *

He doesn't know how long he walks. He doesn't know how far he goes.

It doesn't matter, if he doesn't know where he's going. It doesn't matter, if he doesn't care.

A young girl sees him from a field. She approaches slowly and takes his good hand.

"Are you okay?" She asks. Her eyes are a beautiful reddish-brown and wide with concern.

Memo swallows. He tries to nod, but ends up shaking his head. He takes in a rattling breath. His knees buckle.

He's tired.

He's karking _exhausted_.

The young girl yells for her mother as Memo's shoulders begin to shake. His sobs start quietly, but before long he's shouting with the pain in his heart. His voice reaches a fever pitch as a man and woman come up to him, dragging him to his feet. The woman speaks soothingly, and the man sounds so familiar. It's nice. It _hurts_ , but it's nice.

He's brought into a decently sized farmhouse and sat down on a couch. The woman sits with him, gently rubbing his shoulder. The man wraps a blanket around his shoulders. They wait patiently for him to quiet down a bit, then he's handed a cup of something warm and sweet. 

One of his brothers smiles gently at him.

He's losing his mind. He throws the drink on the floor and screams. He grabs at his head. He tugs his own short hair.

"It's okay, _vod_ ," the man says. "It's okay. You're safe. Nobody's gonna hurt you here. At ease."

"I _AM_ AT EASE!" He screams back. Fresh tears stream down his face. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE _DEAD_ , BEAKER! I KRIFFING _SAW_ YOU!"

"I'm not Beaker, _vod_. I'm sorry." The man — the _impostor_ — reaches for his arm. Memo snaps at him, but the _not-Beaker-not-Fibro-not-Macro_ is too quick. He's pinned against the wall with his good wrist between his shoulderblades. 

"Settle down, kid! I just wanna help you, but I can't do that if you're gonna keep screaming!"

Memo continues to fight for a minute. Then the adrenaline wears off, and he slumps against the wall. 

"Apologies, sir."

The grip on his wrist is released. "Yeah. Me too."

Memo turns, and his own face stares back at him.

"My name's Cut," his reflection tells him. "This is my wife, Suu. Do you have a name?"

Memo swallows. "Yeah," he says. His voice is strained. "My brothers called me Memo. 'S short for Memory."

"Do you mind telling me what happened?"

Memo's gaze falls to the floor. "Yes. I do."

"That's fine." Cut tentatively puts a hand on Memo's good shoulder. "Listen, _vod'ika_. I know what it's like. What you're going through. And I want to help you."

Memo laughs, hollow. "Alright."

The hold on his shoulder tightens. "I mean it. There are only a few reasons any of us would choose to desert, and none of 'em are good. _I know what you're going through_."

Memo's gaze flickers back to Cut's face. "You know what it's like to lose your brothers? Your batch? Your squad? Your company? Your battalion? Your _entire family_?"

Cut nods. "I do."

The room starts to spin a bit. Memo sits down. He picks up the shattered remains of the cup he'd been handed from the floor. "I'm sorry."

"It's just a cup," Cut tells him. He takes the pieces and puts them on the table.

"Not that," Memo murmurs. "Your brothers." He swallows. " _Our_ brothers."

Cut sighs through his nose. "Don't be. It's not your fault. None of it was."

Memo doesn't reply.

Cut crosses into the kitchen, pouring another cup for the other man. "How old are you, Mem-?"

"Ten," Memo interrupts. He grips the thigh of his bodysuit tightly. "I'm ten."

Cut pauses. "Memo, you're not gonna get in trouble for telling the truth." He chuckles. "Who's gonna report you; me? The man who ran away from the GAR three years ago, and would definitely be executed if he was ever found out?"

Suu shoots her husband a look. "Cut."

He shrugs. "It's the truth," he says, passing Memo his drink. "It's tea. It'll help you calm down."

Memo gulps it down without stopping. "I'm not even nine," he mumbles.

Cut whistles. "Republic's getting desperate, huh?"

"The Republic's gone."

"How long?"

"A couple weeks, maybe?" Memo clears his throat. "We . . . received an order to kill any Jedi we see."

"But we fought alongside them."

"I know." The younger clone sets his cup down. "Something about a betrayal. Didn't sit right with me, but nobody else said anything." He sighs and puts his head in his hands. "I was a karking coward."

"Memo-"

"We were firing on a couple of Jedi starfighters. They must have been trying to hide. On their way offworld. Regardless, they fought back. They hit us pretty good, and we crashed." He digs his fingers into his thigh. "Most of my brothers were dead or dying. One of them, Data. He-" Memo's voice broke. "He shot himself after the last member of his platoon died in his arms."

Suu wraps the blanket back around his shoulders. Memo holds it there securely, eyes shut so tight he sees stars. 

"My last batchmate was on that ship. It was just the two of us. 96853 and 96855 never made it off Kamino. Never even got names. Flow got killed in our first fight. Edge and I were the only ones left, and now . . ." He runs his fingers over his ID number, stitched into his blacks: _CT-96851_. "Now it's just me."

Cut sits beside him. "It'll get easier with time," he assures him. "It won't feel like it at first, but, trust me. It will."

The young girl from before peeks inside. "Dad," she says softly, "is he okay?"

"I'm fine," Memo says. It's a reflex. But he doesn't want to take it back now. The girl before him can't be much older than ten. So he settles for the next best thing. "Or, I will be. I think."

She gives him a cursory glance before turning back to her father, lowering her voice. "Is he gonna stay with us?"

Cut looks over at the other man. At his little brother, still shaking. "I think so."

Memo manages to force a smile when the girl turns to him. Something about her reminds him of his _vod'ika_ back on Kamino. "Do you want me to stay?"

She nods, her lekku bouncing against her back. "It's important to help people in need. That's what Dad always says."

"Sounds like he's a smart man."

"He is! He's really strong and brave, too. And he's got _so_ many brothers. He's got like a kajillion!" She pauses. "Are you one of his brothers?"

The word makes his heart clench. "Yeah. We're brothers." His smile falters. "A lot of us have died, but, uh. My general always used to say that the Force works in mysterious ways. Maybe she was right." He pauses. "What's your name, _ad'ika_?"

"I'm Shaeeah! That's my mom, Suu, and my dad, Cut. My brother Jek is out by the barn."

"Well, Shaeeah, I guess I'm your uncle Memory."

* * *

Cut helps him learn to cook a nuna, along with its eggs.

Suu shows him how to ride and soothe an eopie.

Jek and Shaeeah bring him with them into the field to catch fireflies. 

At night, alone, he remembers his brothers.

96583 and 96585 are mourned for what they could have been.

Flow is mourned for what he might have seen.

And each time he says Edge's name, it loses some of its sharpness on his tongue, continuing to bear only the weight.


End file.
